


The Vessel

by DozingNeko



Series: Johnlock "Daily" Prompts [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Cabin Boy John, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Referenced Dub-Con, Sailor!Sherlock, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 06:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14514282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DozingNeko/pseuds/DozingNeko





	The Vessel

Watson whined and struggled with all his might, no match for the hard hold I had on his arms. The dear cabin boy had yet to fill out, still only a young man, lean and spindly, muscular from hard labor. Even after a long day, filled with what easily may have been months of work, he had the wherewithal to struggle, put up the fight he knew I craved. 

The past several days had consisted of nothing but smooth sailing and warm Pacific. The warm south wind, delicious brine on my tongue, sunshine in my nostrils, and my Watson at the centre of my gaze, his calloused fingers working diligently as he turned the trim starboard, catching the breeze and dragging us along.

Initially, I boarded the ship as captain for the thrill. My brother knew how greatly I adored a life at sea. A very old seaman lived down the cobblestone road from our summer home and regaled us stories when we happened upon him. He was an old seahand who fought for the King’s Navy against the Revolution. 

Nothing had filled me with such starstruck amazement prior. I was determined to have my ship run, and run well. Mycroft pulled strings, naturally, and placed me at the head of a glorified border patrol; listlessly sailing for aeons until either needing sustenance or finding evidence of some crime or another. 

On days like these, before my lovely cabin boy, I would compose. Happily, I would play my violin well into the night. Whether or not I played well was of no concern to me. The melodies lulled the dark part of my mortal soul into submission. 

But now Watson _ was _ here, and certainly no law would prevent me from capitalising on such a thing. After several years with only my right hand as a companion and a crew of rowdy half-wits, things became anarchal. Commandments written on black paper became cloudy with misty sea air. There was room for error. Most importantly, morale. 

My own morale had taken a dive recently. Though I'd no need for the cabin boy, I was plenty satisfied with having Wiggins bother with the grunt work, the sight of a young man at a fish market set me off somehow. 

Watson was special - I could most certainly tell. 

He amused me at first, reminiscent of when I was his age, jumping at the opportunity to set foot on a ship. He got along with the crew well enough. Wiggins and he spoke most via sullen glares, however he and Stamford seemed like brothers, separated at birth. 

Easily enough, he'd fallen into our own set of rules. 

  1. No rations until you complete your daily chores.
  2. Do not argue with Captain Holmes.
  3. Do not bother with Mycroft Holmes.



Every command I barked was followed by a, “yes, Captain,” which gave me a sensation I remain unable to quantify. He didn't dally, either. For each task he completed, he rushed back for the next, until he was idling by my side like a lioness learning to hunt. 

Things began to twist uncomfortably when he first scolded me. 

Let it be said that young Watson is no coward. His eyes of sapphire and tongue of flint are not made for peacocking. While no blood tarnished his pristine innocence, he had wound up in fisticuffs while on shore stocking on supplies. Stamford and I barely managed to haul him off the man who had the audacity to challenge him. 

It was a stepping stone to gaining confidence, noting that I'd gotten tobacco ash on the dining table. Wiggins nor Stamford dared to speak, both of them staring incredulously at our youngest crewmember. 

“Watson,” I said calmly, with a steel edge underlying the cotton softness, “I do believe there's a sponge and a latrine calling your name.”

Rather than going pale with disgust, he went red with anger, giving me his usual, “yes, Captain,” and strode away for his new project. 

An unwritten rule was:  _ Do not drunkenly enter Captain Holmes’ room in the evening to have a row. _

Watson blatantly ignored that, having been plied with ale by Stamford and Wiggins and deigned to have a shouting match. One can only guess how that turned into him and I lying together, myself on top of him, driving us both to euphoria through our trousers. 

Though we did not speak of it, Watson returned for more. 

“Dear Watson,” I was saying to him, admiring the play of muscle on his back and upper arms, “you dare defy your captain?”

Watson arched his back, shaking his shaggy, ash blond hair from his face. “You're no better than a pirate, Captain Holmes.” He replied in a sharp snarl. 

His words caused a warm tendril to slither from from my groin to my face. “Is that so?” Shirtless and face down on my cot, he remained barbed and fierce. It was sobering. His daily act was no act at all - John Watson was rabid and without a muzzle. “Perhaps I should show you how those wretches treat the lads they pick up.”

Watson grunted and struggled, each move of his narrow hips pressing his plush arse to my stiff prick. “How do they treat their cabin boys, Captain?”

“Why, like walking harems, Watson.”

The effect my words had on him was thrilling. He released a long moan, rutting his hips into the thin mattress for relief. Though the differences between my own ship and a band of scallywags are few and far between, we are at least, gentlemen. And, out of simple decency, gentlemen curb their tongues. Watson got such a thrill from the vulgarity that it seemed he was about to lose himself. 

I had yet to even frig him. 

His mouth went massive, head turned to the left and hair slicked to his forehead. He had been partially disrobed upon entry, while I had remained in nightdress. “You would like that, would you not?” I said softly, leaning down to speak into his ear. “Slick you up with your own blood and slide my engorged cock into your soft arse, until you wail and beg for mercy. Do you think I'm merciful,  _ John?” _

Beneath me, his body jittered, his backside flush to my pelvis, feeling the swell of me against his warm flesh. His given name felt magnificent as I spoke it, liquid heat running down my chin. “No, Captain.” He hissed, rolling his hips against mine in a curious movement. “I believe you're honourable, with the capacity to do good.  _ Mercy _ is not on your agenda.”

“Good answer.” I praised, moving his upstretched wrists to one hand and holding him steady. With one knee I pried his legs open, my free hand working in tandem to ride down his dark pantaloons. “Do you believe you're _ worth _ my honour?”

Once more, the cabin boy heaved and fell limp. “I daresay I am, Captain.”

As a vain man, I do find myself curious of this fellow. He  _ was _ worth it, I agreed. “So arrogant, Watson. Is pride not a sin?”

“Captain Holmes,” Watson breathed in facetious scandal. “I'd no idea you'd also the capacity for  _ sin! _ Such a thing appears to fly over your thick head.”

The slap hurt my hand about as badly as it did his silky smooth buttock, a pink silhouette of my digits on his otherwise pale skin. “You, dear Watson, are a naughty boy. Shall I treat you as a schoolmaster might? I reckon I have a switch about here somewhere-”

_ “No,  _ Captain.” He rushed out, and it was enough to make me leer down at him. “Please, I'll be an obedient boy for you.”

I found the mason jar of manufactured unguent beneath the mattress. “You will, Watson? I find that hard to believe.” I filled my fingertips with the slick and brought them to his intergluteal cleft and covered his intimate area with the slobbery gloss. His muscle fluttered, clenching slightly as I traced his tensed rim. 

He squeaked, the sound wholly undignified as my index finger pressed into the forgiving gape of his anus. “I can be good.” Watson insisted, rocking back into my hand. 

Grinning, I stretched his sphincter, growling into the back of his neck like a sated jungle cat. “I will  _ make _ you an obedient schoolboy.” Watson grunted in alarm as I shoved in my ring finger into him. I did not thrust for his pleasure, but for utility, expanding his hole for my taking. “I've have a mind to hold you down and keep you here only. Stamford’s had no problem picking up your slack-” the boy squawked indignantly, eyes pinched in rage, “-surely he'd be understanding if I kept you here. As I understand, our coupling has softened my disposition, if only a touch.”

Watson shivered, moving to the sway of the ship as it rocked ever so slightly on the still surface of the ocean. “You wouldn't dare, Captain.” He decreed, turning to glare at me. His tanned face was a delightful shade of vermilion, rich and dark. “You've grown to enjoy me.”

The smile that shadowed my face must have been horribly unpleasant. “I must do,” I conceded, twitching my fingers specifically to jab into the spot hidden inside of him. Noticing I found it was simple enough. He went stiff and limp all at once, raising his bottom enticingly, “I haven’t tossed you overboard quite yet.” 

Sinew and bone roiled like the swell of a tide, more of his warm body taking my hand into him, causing him to shout brokenly. “Cap- _ ah, _ Captain-!”

Hearing my honorific had my penis throbbing uncomfortably in my trousers. “I don’t believe the Spanish heard you, Watson.” I growled at him, watching the hairs on the back of his neck go erect. 

_ “Captain Holmes!” _ He howled like a coyote, his voice sharp and shrill in the still night. 

At once, I ceased pleasuring him, releasing his hands in favour of shoving his face into the thin duvet when he sobbed a complaint. My ears were on alert for a sound of footsteps; Watson's cry was quite loud and startling. I would not be surprised if Stamford and Wiggins stumbled in, expecting to see my corpse lain over the bed. 

“Good, Captain?” He managed to mumble audibly, with another attempt to wrench free. 

The boat was silent, save Watson panting, the gentle shush of waves against the hull, drops slapping the porthole with loud snaps. “Shame on you, Watson.” I chided, nonetheless unfastening my night wear and sliding the bottoms down my legs, pooling at my ankles. I admired the curvature of his back, nonverbally pleased with how well I'd chosen a  _ slave _ . The word  _ slave, _ however, fails to encompass my true feeling for this boy. Nor did servant, however. 

“Aye, Captain.” He concurred, kicking off his pantaloons and widening his stance, practically bending himself in half with my fingers still buried in his rectum, whining at the singing sensation of a stretch in his muscles. Nevertheless, he reached back with his freed hands and took himself by the buttocks, exposing his delicate centre.

_ Cheeky thing, _ I was grinning dumbly, dragging my hand free and wiping it clean on my shirt, apathetic to the stain it would leave - I would sleep shirtless if needs met. I thrust him forward, sprawled face down on the bed, his arms folded beneath his face, his pelvis risen. Hung heavily between his thighs were his testicles, heavy and thickly furred with dusky brown, crinkly hairs. His penis was thick and visibly throbbing, nearly indigo with his prolonged relief. 

At once I was shedding my clothing and springing onto the bed behind him on my knees. “You look positively delicious, my dear boy.” I told him at the deepest pitch I could muster, watching with unfiltered lust as he widened his stance in preparation. Eagerly, I slicked my cock, taking a few strokes to regain myself, my head tossed back. 

Watson made a pitiable noise, grappling for a grasp on my rear and settling once he found it. In lieu of driving home, frigging this boy until his bones were liquefied and all he could do was whine and moan until he orgasmed with my manhood sheathed in his silken entrance, I took the globes of his arse and squeezed, groaning at the sensation of his flesh in my palms. “So marvelous is my Watson.” 

“Captain, you procrastinate.”

I smile at his desperation: no man has wept before me so openly, spreading his thighs and exposed his stretched arse and invite me to plunder, take what I am given and tear free what I desire. “I assure you the opposite. I fear you remain too constricted to enjoy the procedure.” 

Watson shook his head. “I beg to differ, Captain. I feel perfectly prepared for your generous anatomy.” He turned his head to leer playfully at me. 

Lubricant glazing my hand still, I swatted his buttock, leaving a slick print in its wake. “You entice me, Watson?”

“I'd say so,” confirmed the boy, shuffling backwards until the tip of my penis reached his sacrum. He grinned, blue eyes blown onyx. 

I met him halfway, pressing my glans against his quivering hole. Despite his efforts, I did not allow him to lean back, engulf me with his wanting slick, holding him by his hips, feeling the work of his muscles shoving against me. “I'd no clue you would be so inviting, young Watson. Like none before you.”

Watson shivered. “I'm ready for you, Captain.” He said, however moulding the statement into a command. 

“Are you?” I smiled, dragging my cock up and down his slick. “I'm pleased.”

_ “Fuck me,  _ Captain.” He instructed, bringing a hand to his neglected nethers, caressing his bollocks in one hand. “I want- _ mmmm-" _

I cut him off by easing myself into his body, feeding him inches at a torturous pace, placing a hand on the plane between his shoulders. “I know what you want, Watson.” I informed him through my teeth, my eyes fixed on his open mouth, drunk on his long bellow of rapture. “You ache for me, yes? For my penis in your anus?”

_ “Captain,” _ Watson hissed at the end of his breath, pressing back onto me, “yes,  _ Lord above,  _ yes.”

As our thighs pressed flush, my cock buried as deeply as our respective physicalities would allow, I stopped, bowed over his back with a soft sigh. “Very well.” I murmured, kissing and biting his back until I formed a series of constellations upon his flesh. 

I pulled back slowly only to shove deep with a snarl.  _ “Captain,” _ he hissed once more, rocking at my languorous pace. Watson uttering my title urged me to snap my hips into his snug hole, earning me a guttural exclamation. “Fuck me, fill me with your seed, Captain Holmes-!”

Slowly pulling out and shoving in with force, I smothered his shouts once more. “You're not to be making demands, John.” I superimpose, watching his face wash pink. “You're on your hands and knees, squealing like a stuck pig. I, however, am not.”

Watson muffled a moan in his arm, clutching at the stiff bedclothes. I cannot deny my innate desperation to do just that. Roger this cabin boy in his slick arsehole, orgasm in his tight body, feel his muscles clamp down on my prick and milk me of my semen.

More than that, I wanted to draw it out. I cannot force this. Nay, I refuse to. Frigging John Watson is not to be taken lightly. 

For what feels like hours I piston myself in and out of him, eventually taking his angry prick in my fist and touching him in tandem with the rhythm of our consummation. 

I could tell he was done for when his body went rigid and stretched out, legs going tense and sticking out straight on either side of my hips. 

_ “Captain! Captain! Cap-" _

With a grunt, I took him by the hips, relentlessly pounding him, his face rubbing raw against the cotton, his back arched at an odd angle. “Watson,” I snapped at him, losing my pace, “I adore you.” 

Watson writhed on my cock, weak from orgasm. “As I you, Cap- _ Cap _ tain.” 

“Perfect.” I tell him, relishing the sensation of his pelvic bone grinding into my waist. “Beg me, boy. Plead for me to give you my release.”

I grinned darkly, pleased beyond compare as he immediately began to wail and sob, his eagerness for me within him. “Yes, Captain Holmes, I want you, feel you slosh inside of me, incredible, fucking me-”

I roared as my seed flooded him, thick white liquid spurting from him around my cock, pulling out and gleefully watching it sluice down his strong thighs. I painted him with my hands, covering his scrotum and his lower back.

For several minutes, he allowed me to indulge before he tore away, shaking his head. “Captain, I'll not be able to bathe for days.” He scolded, annoyed more than disgusted. 

I merely smirked, bowing to retrieve my nightshirt and smear away the evidence. “I'm sure you'll survive, smelling of my sweat and sperm.”

The boy rolled onto his back with a sated sigh and dull smile. “I'm not sure Mister Wiggins will appreciate that.”

I leaned down to kiss him, voracious, until I'm breathless and he wheezes against my lips, his stout fingers cradling my skull like something precious. “I could give a damn, Watson.” I broke away to tell him. “Do not fall victim to your embarrassment. I would like to think lying with me is preferable to a public stoning.”

Watson chortled, mussing my already disastrous locks. He looked just as poor for wear, bedraggled with hair that looked as though it had been dragged through a rose bed. “Perhaps marginally, Captain.”

“Smug twat.” I deigned to chasten him. “If you intend to bed me, you must be more polite.” Watson scruffed me up more, scratching my temples. 

I fell asleep on his lap, nuzzled into his neck. I woke hours later, however to a steady rumble of snores in my right ear. 


End file.
